


Rough Meeting

by Songofpsalms297



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angry Varric, Angst, Beginnings, Cassandra is snarky, Doribull if you squint, F/M, Feelings, Humor, Inquisitor/Cullen if you squint really hard, Pre-Relationship, Protecting his loved ones, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Surprise pair up eventually, Surprises, Varric gives Corff pointers, playing fast and loose with canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-01 14:12:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8627614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Songofpsalms297/pseuds/Songofpsalms297
Summary: Varric and Cassandra meet in his suite at the Hanged Man and discuss information gathering techniques.





	1. Chapter 1

     “Do you have any idea what I could do to you?” Fury bubbled through the chest of the normally amicable dwarf. The chantry had been blown to bits by one of his closest friends in a freak act, that, to be sure, he should have seen coming. He'd seen Blondie at least once a week, and yet somehow had completely missed the signs. He felt guilty for not knowing, and now he had Mother Elthina, and all those other poor chantry bastards' blood on his hands. Daisy, Sunshine, Broody, and Hawke were hiding somewhere in the wilds near Redcliff fighting for their lives. All because he hadn’t seen that Blondie was gearing up to go full terrorist. Terrorist acts which drew seekers, who liked to threaten his family in an attempt to gain leverage to use against him. “Any idea, at all?” Images of bodies pulled from Lake Calenhad, faces etched forever in a scream of terror flashed across his mind.

      Scoffing, she mocked, “Why should I care what you can do to me? I am not afraid of the likes of you.” His chuckle raised the hairs on the back of her neck, “You really have no clue who you are dealing with, do you?” Her eyes widen, not in fear perhaps, but caution. He rubbed his face roughly with his hands, desperately trying to tamp down his fury. “You don’t threaten a man’s family in a pathetic attempt to shake him down for information, Seeker. You ask. Maybe you buy him a drink. Flirt. Never threaten his family.” Mockery made her lips twist into a sneer, “Like I could trust anything you said. I’ve read that fantastical tripe you’ve sold as the _Tale of the Champion_. It is **bullshit**. I’ve heard enough about you to know you are nothing but a lying, blustering, over-indulgent fool. The ragtag band of merry misfits you committed illegal acts with will be found. We know they are hiding somewhere in the Hinterlands, and are track— “

     She never saw him move. In the time it took for her mind to register the snick of a blade drawn, it was pressed against her throat. A dangerous rumble rose from below her right ear, “Call me whatever you want, Seeker. But call off your dogs. Leave my family alone. If you don't, I guarantee you will regret it.”

     Cassandra had spent years training for these types of situations, her mind racing through the protocols for an exit from this circumstance. She tried to draw him out, make him relax, so she could gain time to ease the blade from her throat. “You are not even related to these criminals you ran around with. They are not true family,” she spat.

     His dangerous chuckle spiked fear into her stomach, which tightened in response. “Seeker, family isn’t always defined by blood. Family can be found. I won’t tell you again to leave mine alone.” In a breath, the knife was gone and he’d returned to the fireplace, brandy in hand once more.

     She could have imagined the whole thing except her neck still tingled where the blade had been, her body still felt the pressure of his arm across her torso. Anger overtook fear, and caution, her hand tightening on the pommel of her sword, drawing it in one breath. “How dare you accost me? I will see you arrested for this!”

     His cool regard washed over her as he drew his brandy glass to his lips, before he drank he replied, “How? You have no witnesses to corroborate your story. People know me here. I am their storyteller, and in some cases, benefactor. The bartender Corff is a decent aspiring author, and he’s allowing me to give him pointers. Nora the waitress is an alcoholic, who first came to Kirkwall with the other Ferelden refugees. There is a new waitress at the bar, a newly widowed mother of 1-year-old twins. Her husband Meric, ran afoul of some Carta gang or other, trying to make enough money to get them all out of Darktown. They had Andraste’s luck of falling in love during the blight. Their families were both killed or scattered to the four winds. Elise and Meric only ever had each other. Now she is all alone, with their boys, still stuck in a Darktown hole, so she works here whenever she can find a sitter, just so they have food in their bellies, and clothes on their backs.” Impatient, she interrupts his stream of conversation with a sharp hand gesture.

     “I don’t have the resources, or time to spend years developing contacts in one area!”

     He releases a dismissive snort, “Years? Shit, Seeker. Elise told me her life story last night, between rounds of cards! You ever hear the Ferelden saying, “you catch more flies with honey”? You’d get more truthful answers from your interrogatees if you developed your “people skills” from non-existent to 'can-wave-and-smile-in-greeting-others" to get information from a broken-hearted girl overwhelmed by the life she suddenly finds herself in. And my definition of family is someone whose got your back without you ever having to ask. Someone who will give up their best, just so you can have a shot. People who seek you out, because they feel the hole you’ve left in their life when you are not around to talk to. When you aren’t taking up space. Ever experienced anything even remotely like that, Seeker?”

     His fury turns to confusion as tears began running down her cheeks. She wasn’t a dramatic weeper, the writer in him noted, face bunched up so others could see the depth of their pain. No, the Seeker wept like she was used to crying quietly, all alone. She could have been the marble Andraste that once stood in the Hightown Chantry before Blondie blew it to smithereens! Seeing her silent grief, Varric's heart twisted in his chest.  He realized during his indignant defense of his family, something he said had broken through her hard facade.

     Attempting to lighten things he ventured, “Well, shit, I didn’t mean to make you cry, Seeker.” He should have left it alone but he couldn’t, “leave my family alone and we’ll get along just fine.”

     She sheathed the sword she hadn’t realized she’d drawn, reaching for the cloak she used when she was traveling incognito on Divine Justinia’s business. Crossing the room toward the exit she bit out, “you are wrong, you know. I did have that kind of family once. They were ripped from me forever when I was a young girl. My parents were executed as traitors when I was 4, and my brother--. Anthony was executed before my eyes, when I was 10. The rebel mages decapitated him in front of me for his refusal to get dragon’s blood for the Mages’ Collective.”

     Striding from his suite into the hallway, she does not hear him calling to her, or see him reaching out. Cassandra turns immediately to her right, heading down to the room she had rented earlier this afternoon.

     Varric scrubbed his hands over his face and groaned. All he’d wanted to do was keep Hawke and company safe from the witch hunt the Seeker was on. He hadn’t meant to be an ass, or make her cry. Hell, he hadn't realized he could make the Seeker cry. 


	2. Her Armor Pierced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra leaves Varric's suite at the Hanged Man and ponders things.

Storming off to her room at the Hanged Man, Cassandra did her best to keep more tears from streaking their way down her face. Eyes carefully straight, avoiding eye contact with that strange chatty man, the one who seemingly paced the hallways of this establishment muttering aloud to himself. Cassandra wondered if he was simply puzzling things out, or someone desperately lonely, so desirous of any human conversation, that he was willing to appear insane, just to connect with anyone at all. Cassandra allowed a couple tears to slid down her cheeks, remembering getting to that point in her travels as a seeker a few times. Cassandra had always been a solitary person, well, after the decimation of her closest family, she had learned to withdraw into herself, to keep the very privatest parts of herself closed off, unless she was well and truly alone. Not even Leliana knew Cassandra as well as she thought. All those little breadcrumbs of information Cassandra had shared with Leli over the years they’d worked together had only been things Cassandra was willing to divulge. They were the truth though. After their playful conversation over glasses of Alamari Red, when Leli gave Cassandra a copy of _Swords and Shields_ , insinuating Leli’s understanding that Cassandra was a closet romantic, Cassandra had resolved to keep her emotional armor ever closer around herself. Well aware of how Leliana used those bits of information to leverage others in her service to the Divine.

Regaylan had taught Cassandra that no one could really be trusted. He had spent so much time wooing Cassandra, after they had saved Divine Beatrix together, that she had opened her heart to him. She had told him about losing her parents, and about Anthony’s horrific death at the hands of the mages they’d both thought their friends. After all, having grown up in Nevarra, with Uncle Vestalus as head necromancer of the Grand Necropolis in Nevarra City, she had never developed that seemingly innate fear of mages that it seemed most of Ferelden, and Orlais had. The Mortalitasi were attached to the throne of Nevarra, a silent power base, and therefore a part of her everyday life. She hadn’t been suspicious of Gaylan’s motives, had thought it was love, she’d felt cherished whenever he presented her with flowers, flattering words, or romantic walks. She had blushed to her toes when he had told her, in flowery poetic language how much he wanted her. Remembering walking past his room, and discovering his seduction of her had not, in fact been love, but was instead the result of a drunken bet with one of the other circle mages, caused Cassandra to blush crimson, tightening her fists in remembered fury. Humiliation still burned in her heart for that mistake. 

Leliana had teased Cassandra throughout the many years they had worked as the Hands of the Divine, that Cassandra should let go, and allow someone in. It was with genuine concern that Leliana reminded Cassandra that she might lose herself entirely if Cassandra didn’t share her own thoughts, and dreams with another. Greater warriors than she had gone insane because they refused to share the burden of command with their fellow soldiers. Carrying the weight of whole armies on their shoulders, they had carried it all too close and like the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, fell to pride, and the assumption that they needed no one else. Cassandra shivered as she crossed the threshold of her room, when the image of Knight-Commander Meredith popped, unbidden before her mind’s eye. She just wasn’t comfortable letting others in. Cassandra supposed she would have to work at that. Varric’s assessment of her, that cutting evaluation of her information gathering methods, of her not having family to call her own, had startled her more than his knife blade at her throat. He really was gifted in reading people, seeing beyond what they wished to share, that intelligence had been remarkably correct. That was a terrifying thought. To stand before someone completely without armor, naked. She found as fiercely as she longed to be able to honestly, without apology, be seen and accepted for who she truly was; she was petrified of being judged, and found wanting. She had been teased during seeker training by the other recruits, and some of her trainers that she was so enamored of finally becoming a seeker, as soon as she received her armor that she slept in it. In truth, Cassandra dressed herself in her physical armor, and put on her emotional armor piece by piece as well. Cassandra chuckled at the memories, she had awakened in the barracks numerous times to shocked faces when her fellows discovered she hadn’t actually slept in the armor; she just always wore it when she wasn’t asleep.  

Varric was more that what he seemed. He wasn't an amicable, perpetually buzzed, storyteller. He was a lightning-quick rogue, nearly silent on his feet. She shuddered remembering the knife against her throat, and the cold fury in his words as he warned her to stop searching for Hawke. The insinuation that she or her soldiers would come to harm had seemed like author bluster, until that moment when he was behind her, blade against her throat. She had read those sorts of threats in Varric’s books countless times, and had scoffed, believing if she were ever in that situation, her seeker training would give her an easy out. But he had moved like a vapor, one breath he was across the room by the fireplace, half-full glass of brandy in his hand, the next, behind her, coiled tension in his body as he immobilized her and pressed the dagger close to her jugular. He’d moved with a speed, and grace she hadn’t expected of him.

She understood his feelings though. If someone had dared threaten Anthony, she would have reacted similarly, though she might have stabbed first, and warned them off after. Still, she should never have told Varric about her family. She suspected he might use it against her later. She was shocked at her flawed evaluation of the dwarf. He’d seemed all amicable bluster during the interrogation. He’d drawn her into the story of Hawke’s rise to become the Champion of Kirkwall, she’d begun entertaining the idea what it would be like to fight back to back with Varric. Him throwing barbed quips at their enemies, while she guarded him with her sword, and shield. Protecting him from enemies he might not see, pondering how long it would take for them to become a well-oiled fighting machine.

Taking off her breast plate, Cassandra noticed a letter on the end table next to her bed. The letter must have arrived after she had gone to confront Varric in his suite. Sliding a finger beneath the wax seal, Cassandra took in Leliana’s firm script: “P., Storm is coming. J. requests signed book. Extend a polite invitation to author. –Nightingale.” Sighing in exasperation, Cassandra scrubbed the tears from her cheeks. She was going to have to deal with that insufferable, mildly frightening dwarf for the three weeks it would take for them to travel from this hole, to Val Royeaux. Steeling herself to walk past his open door, she determined she would inform him of their travel arrangements after having requested a hot bath from the barkeep. It was going to be a long trip.


	3. Wounded Coast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have always been intrigued by the sudden appearance of the scar on Cassandra's lower left cheek between the events of Dragon Age 2, and Inquisition.

Muttering under his breath, Varric packs. Settling his debts with Corff, “Don’t give my room away while I’m gone Corff. If you do, I’ll stop giving you pointers, and withdraw my offer to introduce you to my editor,” he winked, giving the Hanged Man’s bartender enough money to purchase the building three-times-over. “I’ll be back in a couple of months.”

Corff nods, “Ser Tethras, I look forward to your return. Do you really think there is a place for my speed griffon stories in Thedas?” Varric chuckles lightly at the man’s earnest query, “I do, Corff. But we have to make sure it gets to my editor. She’s mean, but she has fantastic taste in literature. Watch out for your grammar though. She's a stickler for semicolons. I really shouldn’t keep the Seeker waiting. She’s beautiful, but impatient. Oh, and please keep Elise on, she needs the work to take care of her boys.” Corff nods his assent. “Safe travels, Ser Tethras. We’ll be waiting your return.”

Shouldering his pack, hefting Bianca, Varric nods, exiting the Hanged Man for what could be a very long while. Varric sighed. Looking to his right, spotting the Seeker and his “escort”, he smiles wryly. “Ready when you are, Seeker.” She harrumphs, striding past him on her way to the docks, leading their group to the ship, he catches a whiff of jasmine and is briefly captivated. Shaking his head, he thinks, "not smart Tethras, keep tighter rein on your imagination. Once the Seeker starts starring in your fantasies, you know it’s all over but the crying." Chuckling at his thoughts, he looks up to follow her when he sees her looking at him, eyebrow cocked in question. Smothering his laughter, he follows her strides down to the harbor.

An enormous disadvantage of being the loveable dwarven sidekick surrounded by humans, Varric realized, was that one of the Seeker’s strides equaled about three of his. He’d had to jog to keep up with her, much to the amusement of her entourage, and his own frustration. He glared breathlessly at the soldiers whose strides were almost as long as the Seeker’s. He’d slowed down to catch his breath about half a block ago, and was catching up just in time to hear the Seeker growl at the Port Authority Officer at the dock.

“What do you mean The King’s Gambit was turned away from Kirkwall? We have booked pas--Forget it.” Cassandra gave a disgusted snort, while the officer attempted to splutter a response in the face of a furious Seeker of Truth. “Fine. I will handle it from here. Dismissed.” Varric chuckled at the look of relief that had briefly bloomed on the officer’s face when he realized the Seeker was allowing him to leave, life and limbs intact. She seemed oblivious to the fact that to the regular people of Kirkwall, she was as much a mythical creature as Flemeth. Smothering the grin at her frustration, he offered, “Anything I can help with, Seeker?” His heart sank when she informed him that they would be leaving Kirkwall on foot, until they could reach an obscure port halfway between Kirkwall, and Cumberland. He could have sworn there was a twinkle of mischief in her eyes when she said they would have to travel on foot through the Wounded Coast to get there. “Well, shit.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She couldn’t believe their luck. The ship they had booked passage on had been delayed, or rerouted from landing at the docks in Kirkwall. The port officer had seemed incredibly nervous; the entire time he had spoken to her. Given that seekers weren’t usually seen by the general population, she was used to a certain amount of unease whenever she spoke to well, anyone other than her fellow seekers, or her superiors. As much as he irritated her, she realized the dwarf was correct. For people outside the upper echelons of the Chantry hierarchy, Seekers of Truth were considered legendary. Just barely smothering a grunt of frustration, Cassandra readjusted her pack, turned on her heel, and headed out of the city. There was a long way to travel. They would simply travel inland toward an obscure port half-way between Kirkwall, and Cumberland. The little port village had been intentionally obscured by the Seeker Order, in case the seekers ever needed to quietly travel into or out of Ferelden. The little port village cut weeks of travel time. Cassandra wasn’t looking forward to dragging their “guest” through the Planasene Forest to get to the little village. He was already grumbling about not being able to sleep in his suite tonight. Though she had taken some small pleasure in his discomfiture when she had explained their change in travel plans with modified route. Just like she had enjoyed his harrumpf of frustration and in his attempt to keep up with her, Varric had been forced into a kind of trot. Thank the Maker she had been ahead of him to start with or he would have seen the smirk she had to fight to hide.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Wounded Coast was beautiful this time of year. They made camp in an area of the coast which was easily defensible by land, as there was one road in, and the other three sides were surrounded by water, and the sharp rocks the Wounded Coast got its name from. After collecting some wood for their fire, Cassandra returned to the campsite to hear Varric regaling the soldiers about Hawke’s daring rescue of the Viscount’s son from kidnappers from this very spot. The surprise ending being that Seamus hadn’t been kidnapped by the Qunari, as his father had feared, but had run off with his Qunari friend, planning to pledge his life to the Qun. Some of the soldiers gasped when Varric revealed this tidbit, as they hadn’t heard the story before. The twinkle in Varric’s eyes made the corners of her mouth quirk in response. She realized he loved telling stories, in part, because he enjoyed the response of his audience.

She was a bit surprised to realize that she enjoyed listening to his voice as well as the soldiers. The easy cadence he slipped into when he began a story. The inevitable twinkle in his eyes when he realized his audience was on the hook, caught up in the world of magic he created with his imagination. The spell he wove was just as intriguing as a mages’ glamour charm. She chuckled with her soldiers when Varric told the punch line of a joke. His look of mild surprise, prolonged her laughter. It was with a lighter heart that she’d gone to bed that night. She wasn’t certain how the day’s events had managed to help smooth over the events of the previous evening, but somehow, it had. She left word with her first officer to wake her for her turn at watch. She didn’t have to do it, she could easily have assigned her men to guard the camp, but lazy leadership didn’t sit well on her shoulders. If she was going to require her soldiers to do it, she was going to do it as well.

She awakened before the officer came to get her. After years of sleeping out of doors, and taking turns at watch, her body woke her after almost two hours of rest. She dressed silently, buckling her armor in the dark. Years of familiarity taught her how to don or remove her armor almost without noise, and without the need for light. She picked up her sword, and shield before exiting the tent.

Years of combat and living alone had refined Cassandra’s awareness of the world around her. A few minutes into her watch, the hairs on the back of her neck rose, silently sliding her blade from its scabbard, she stood falling into her fighter’s stance instinctually. His chuckle caused the adrenalin to sour in her veins, “I would hate to report my failure to keep you alive, due to your own foolishness, dwarf.” He opened his mouth to reply, then raised his hand to forestall the question in her eyes. Indicating with his eyes the direction the sound came from, he turned on the balls of his foot, a blade having appeared in his hand. They turned, her slightly to her right, him slightly to his left, both waiting for whomever was moving in the dark to make their move. Cassandra could have shouted, and roused the camp, but it felt wrong, so she waited with Varric at her back. She was surprised how natural it felt, that she trusted him.

The attack happened swiftly. Cassandra wasn’t certain who these people were, or why they decided to attack them. Thankfully, the sounds of Cassandra and Varric fighting roused the soldiers in the camp, and they had back up. Instinctually she dove between the blade that was heading toward his back. Bringing her shield up to deflect it, the blade came up. She felt it connect with her jaw. Raw fury flowed through her, as she retaliated. Then, when the battle was over and she could see that everyone was alright, she gave in to the clawing darkness.

Varric turned around with a witty comment on his lips just in time to register Cassandra’s gore covered face, and watch her drop like a stone.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! This was difficult to write. I have long been curious about the story behind the scars on Cassandra's face. There is no canon explanation that I have found, so my head canon is that she gets it when she and Varric are on their way from Kirkwall to Val Royeaux.  
> Which also helps set the tone, at least for me, for their warming relationship.


	4. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric in the healer's tent post ambush. His thoughts about Cassandra's state.

He didn’t remember screaming, yet he gratefully drank the soothing tea the healer handed to him. Wincing as he spoke his voice gravellier than normal, pain permeated his throat. “How-“, cutting him off the healer spoke, “Seeker Pentaghast should recover with full use of her facial muscles. The shield bash which knocked her to the ground split her skin, and damaged the underlying muscle and nerves.” He gestured to forestall Varric’s next question, “I am confident she will recover. However, we will not know the extent of the damage until months later. The damage may be severe enough that Seeker Pentaghast will lose all muscle control on the left side of her face.” Varric groaned, but the healer quickly resumed, “or she may just be left with a large scar. Her attacker drove his shield down to her jaw bone.” Varric winced as the image of her crumpling to the ground like a child’s doll shot equal parts panic, and grief coursed through him.

“Master Tethras, while I am certain you have many more questions about Seeker Pentaghast’s situation, you must not speak for a few days. No, do NOT attempt to wave away my concerns. I know how much the men and I enjoy the tales you entertain us with after camp is set for the night, and the journey will be much the duller without your stories. Please, take the next few nights until we reach the ship to let your voice rest, unless you wish to lose it completely.” Varric patted the healer’s arm and whispered, “Alright, Doc, I’ll rest it. Don’t complain if you are bored though.”

Varric was grateful that the healer had insisted he bunk in the infirmary tent tonight. Apparently, the healers were worried for him due to the shield he’d taken to the back of the head, they wanted to make sure when he slept, that he’d wake. Thoughtfully, they’d placed him in the cot next to the Seeker’s. He could watch over her as he took notes on the battle they’d survived, carefully avoiding recording the moment Cassandra dropped like a stone. He knew he’d never forget that for the rest of his days, the horror and panic he’d felt were just evidence that he was beginning to see the Seeker as a friend. She was an entertaining traveling companion, and he’d never admit it to her, the honest interest she displayed whenever he spun one of his tales was good for his ego.

Her Wicked Grace face was laughable, and she was blunt, to the point of being rude. She had a total lack of artifice. That was something he was surprised enjoyed about her company. She laughed when she meant to, she was not coy. He chuckled when he remembered her calling bullshit during her interrogation of him. She had been so wrapped up in the story he was spinning; eyes twinkling in anticipation, mouth slightly open, she’d gasp when he surprised her that he threw in something outrageous, just to see how swept away she was. Her smiling call of “bullshit,” still brought a chuckle to his lips.

He wanted to chalk up the revelation that he found her beautiful, and funny to the healing herbs in his system. It had nothing to do with her dry wit, or her short spiky, raven hair, or legs that went on for miles. Nor with the way she moved in battle, it was pure poetry. She was graceful, controlled violence directed toward enemy combatants. She danced across the battlefield, her sword and shield mere extensions of the Seeker’s lean, muscular frame. Pull it together, Tethras. He shook his head, and chuckled at the direction his thoughts had been running. Well, shit, maybe he could use some of this as fodder for another _Swords & Shields_ chapter. He’d agreed with his editor to write a second chapter to better determine the salability of the series, or to figure out if it would be best to end it. The cliffhanger ending should garner enough readers at least to pay for the printing. Plus, irritating his friend Aveline was always good for the soul. Sniggering, he put quill to paper to jot down the ideas he didn’t want to lose.

He spent far too much time glancing over at the resting Seeker while he scribbled ideas on parchment. She was completely disheveled, spiky hair plastered against the bed, white bandage the size of his palm enveloping more than half of her unconscious face. Black lashes whisper soft against her cheek, with an ugly bruise creeping out from under the bandage. The bruise covered the left side of her face from her dainty ear and eyebrow, across her nose, lips, and chin, extending half-way down her graceful neck. He noticed a thin chain bunched by her right collar bone. Varric wondered at its significance.

It was well past midnight when Varric put his pen down. The mixture of elfroot, and Maker knew what else, had worn off, and the knot on the back of his head was beating a nauseating tattoo against his skull. Waving one of the assistant healers over, he whispered the problem, she returned with another dose, this had something else with the elfroot which should settle Varric’s stomach, and help the writer to sleep. She informed Varric he’d been conscious long enough that they weren’t worried about him falling asleep and not waking. Quickly glancing at the prone form of the Seeker, Varric returned his gaze to the assistant healer, quirking his eyebrows in question.

“Master Tethras, Seeker Pentaghast is healing faster than expected. We will wake her tomorrow to determine the extent of the nerve/muscle damage. I gave you a potion with sleeping herbs which will help you rest.” With that she bustled off to attend to another patient. Looking over at Cassandra’s unmoving form, he sighed. Praying quickly to the Maker that she’d recover, Varric drifted into a restless sleep.


	5. Varric's Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra finds Varric's sleeping quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter will feel out of sync with the story so far, especially given the jump in time and space from the Wounded Coast (pre-conclave), to this chapter (post-Haven). I am sorry for that. I will add the inbetween chapters someday, but this one begged to be written and posted.  
> <3 :D

Skyhold keep was immense. It was half again the size of Haven, so finding room for everyone to bed down was a relatively simple task. For the first few months, because of the keep’s rundown state, people slept wherever they could find room, with the idea that eventually everyone would be housed somewhere. The barracks would hold the soldiers, and others would stake their claim on one of the many rooms within Skyhold as repairs safely progressed. So the Inquisitor took the party members she could to close breaches, and help people survive the chaos in their little corner of Thedas. As word of the Inquisition’s power grew, more and more people were recruited, or volunteered to help stabilize the world gone mad. Some of these people were enlisted to help rebuild the keep. Others were enlisted to help forage for healing herbs, and stone that could be used to forge, and craft better weapons. Yet still others served the Inquisition by doing laundry, dusting, washing, mending clothes, and torn armors. Walking through Skyhold, Cassandra paused on the steps where Malika had accepted the position of Inquisitor, and surveyed the keep. A smile crossed her face, remembering how decrepit the keep had been when they first arrived. Yet little more than half a year later, it looked more and more like a keep, and less like a crumbling ruin.

Everyone in the Inquisition’s higher eschelons were given the same directive regarding personal quarters. As they had more responsibilities, they were afforded greater leeway in regards to where they kept their personal belongings, and where they bedded down. The only real caveat was, if they camped in a high-traffic area, they not cause issues, or interfere with Inquisition business. And usually, wherever people had created their initial sleeping places, evolved into their personal “rooms”, as it were.  Cassandra slept above the forge, Solas slept in the rotunda below the library, Cullen slept above his office, Blackwall chose to sleep in the stables, Sera had chosen rather posh accommodations above the tavern, Vivienne chose a room with a view which she could observe the happenings of the great hall, or what occurred in the bailey. The Inquisitor had been assigned a palatial suite she couldn’t stand, which explained why she spent most of her time sleeping elsewhere and being elsewhere. Cassandra didn’t think Evelyn had spent more than one night in her suite. She’d heard Evelyn arguing with Josephine, and Leliana about turning that suite into a proper infirmary for soldiers requiring more than a bandage, and a potion. To Cassandra’s knowledge, all of Evelyn’s arguments had been dismissed by both the spymaster, and the ambassador.  

But where were Varric’s sleeping rooms?

Huffing in frustration, Cassandra explored Skyhold in the hopes of determining where the dwarf slept. Remembering the first time Varric had kissed her, Cassandra still flushed. It had been right after the mass exodus from Haven. He’d sought out her company while they held the vigil for the fallen. Everyone fearful that Evelyn had died to purchase them all time to escape. Varric had tentatively reached out to hold Cassandra’s hand. Surprised by the unexpected contact, their eyes had met, questioning the gesture, she hadn’t pulled away from him. The tears in his eyes had surprised her as well. “Seeker, if there’s anything my life has taught me so far is that it is too damn short. Somewhere along the line, you changed from being my interrogator, to being a friend that I could laugh with, and now, well, its’ been there for a while now. I care deeply for you.” Sighing in frustration, and scrubbing his free hand over his face, “I don’t do this sort of thing well. When we were fighting to keep the trebuchets defended it hit me hard that I could lose you. And I don’t want to lose you. I’ve come to enjoy that noise you make when you are disgusted with something I’ve said. So I say them on purpose now, it has become such fun to draw a reaction from you, I find myself looking for ways to cheer you up, and Andraste’s ass, to hear you laugh is my favorite sound.” He’d cleared his throat, glanced at their still touching hands, “I see my feelings for you mirrored on Curly’s face, when he looks at the Herald. His grief is killing me, because he let her get away. I don’t want to miss out on you and me. I’d really like to give us a try, if you feel anything like I do.” Cassandra reddened further as she remembered wiping the tears streaming from her face, and her boldness. She’d enjoyed shocking him by leaning down and kissing him full on the lips. She’d giggled at his gasp when she darted her tongue between his lips. They jerked apart when Cullen gave a shout, and they ran up the hill to save Evelyn.

In the intervening months since Haven blew up, and the Inquisition had settled at Skyhold, they had shared romantic moments together. She’d find a new poem in her bedroll, or in her pack when they were separated. Or her favorite flowers perfuming her room when she came home from a mission with Evelyn. When Evelyn took Varric on missions and left Cassandra behind, she would make certain he was stocked with his favorite kind of ink, the highest quality quills stocked, and sharpened, awaiting his hand. Reams of the parchment he favored. She also made sure that the chair, he sat at by the fire in Skyhold’s Great Hall was comfortable. She took his place in it reading of an evening, to feel closer to him. She’d asked him just before he rode out yesterday on the latest mission with Evelyn, something about red lyrium stashes; if he minded, and his response was to growl, and draw her in for a deep kiss. He’d assuaged her fears that she was an inconvenience he hadn’t been able to escape, but was someone he cherished.

That was what had spurred Cassandra to take their relationship to the “next level” as Bull had said. Cassandra had smiled at the shock on Dorian’s face when she’d admitted that she and Varric had yet to consummate their relationship. She still laughed aloud whenever the image of Dorian’s face popped into her mind. She’d begun searching for Varric’s private quarters because she’d wanted to surprise him when he returned to Skyhold tomorrow evening. She’d planned to carry the copper tub into his room with a variety of spiced warming oils, borrowed from Bull’s private stash. She’d requested a half dozen candles, a bear-hide rug blanket, and a few pillows from Ser Morris. Her glare effectively shutting out his desire to find out more information. She was flummoxed however by the complete absence of his presence in any of the garden rooms, or even barracks bedrolls, or the empty but finished sleeping rooms scattered around Skyhold.

            Frustrated, Cassandra returned to Ser Morris. “You know where everyone sleeps here in the keep, do you not?” Flustered, Ser Morris nodded, “Ye-, uh, yes, Sir, uh Ma’am!” Smothering her smirk Cassandra continued. “You have a list?” Ser Morris nodded again. “Hand it over. I wish to see it.” Shaking, Ser Morris flipped through his log book and found the page detailing where they slept, and the requisitions made by each companion, or advisor. Some of the requisitions were of a very personal nature, while others were more mundane. Sera had asked for “fancy prat pillows”, Dorian had requested both warmer blankets, and ingredients for a Tevene skin lotion so he wouldn’t “chafe in the blasted cold,” while Blackwall had requested higher grade metals, and leathers for his wood carving tools. Finally, after a few more minutes searching, Cassandra noted that Varric’s sleeping quarters were between the Herald’s Rest, and Cullen’s leaky tower. She nodded her thanks to the requisitions officer and headed to her own quarters to collect the items she’d been gathering so she could surprise Varric when he came home to her. Blushing at the thought that warmed her, she picked up the basket she’d set the candles, nightgown, blanket, and oils in, and headed across Skyhold to his sleeping space.

            Opening the door to Varric’s room, shock, and realization hit her hard. This was further evidence to her, that she was bestowing her heart upon a man of great worth. The room that Varric had chosen hadn’t been renovated yet. Skyhold’s garden, and Mages’ tower had been upgraded, all the visiting dignitaries’ rooms had been created, furnished, and beautified. While his room was filled with cobwebs, dust, and debris. He’d chosen a room because Josephine had pestered them all incessantly to find a place that suited them, that would help them unwind when they returned from missions. Varric’s chair in the Great Hall smelled so strongly of him because he slept there. That explained how he rose before her every day, and why he was still seated there when she retired for the evening. She knew he had maddeningly large amounts of correspondence to keep up with, the Merchant’s Guild members sent at least five grievance letters per week, he had his own spy network which helped close gaps in some of the information Leliana’s people gathered.

            Cassandra knew he also had multiple businesses to keep track of, accounts to settle, as well as arranging protection for the family he left behind when she’d dragged him from Kirkwall. He must be so busy that he never got the chance to do anything for himself. Guilt crept up her spine, if she hadn’t…, well she had. Squaring her shoulders, she placed the basket in a mostly debris, and spider free area of the room, and marched back down to Requisitions. She had a day and a half left before her beloved returned to Skyhold, and he was going to require a proper bed and room to sleep in. Especially after the welcome home she had planned to give him.


	6. Home at Skyhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric comes home, and receives an invitation.

Varric was bone weary. He had just returned from Emprise du Lion with the Evelyn, Sparkles, and Hero. What had originally been a three-day mission had stretched out over four weeks of wading through ass-deep snow, and red lyrium stashes. Not to mention the bloody red Templars all over the place. Varric planned to wander down to the public baths and soak in a tub with an ale, for at least an hour. And he’d have to come back to the main hall, and begin to catch up on all the Merchant’s Guild business he’d missed in the past month. Nightingale had tried to help him stay abreast of things by sending him ravens for the most pressing matters that had arisen, but there was so much more of the day to day problems, trade deals, charities, smuggling, and money lending that just piled up whenever he was away.

            He also wanted to see Cassandra. Their relationship had taken a turn for the better after Haven. He’d realized in the moments when Evie had said goodbye to Curly, that his feelings for Cassandra had deepened beyond friendship, and that if he lost her before he could let her know how he felt, he’d kick himself forever. When they’d made camp after fleeing Haven, he’d risked a sword through him, but, he let the Seeker know how much she meant to him. He told her he was willing to take their relationship as slowly as she wanted. They had leaned in for a gentle kiss when the cry had gone up from Curly that the Herald had survived the avalanche and had found them! They had had further options for kissing and light petting. They hadn’t really allowed things to go farther. They had taken to leaving little gifts for each other, from time to time. She was still fragile, even though she was tough enough to kick the *** of the Red Templars, or dragons, or bears! Maker’s balls, she’d eradicate the bear population of Thedas by herself. She’d mentioned a mage lover during one of their fireside chats, but from her tone as she spoke about him, Varric had determined things had soured quickly, and ended on a negative note. The way she’d resisted his gentle inquiry had given Varric some hesitations about taking things further.

            One evening he’d set out a roaring fire, a bear hide (thinking she’d laugh), candles, wine, and another _Swords and Shields_ chapter he’d written just for Cass, and she’d responded well, until he noticed tears in her eyes after they’d kissed. He had asked what was wrong, terrified he’d done something horrible without realizing it. She had divulged some further details about her relationship with Galen. Andraste forgive him, but it was a good thing that bastard mage had died at the Conclave. Otherwise Galen would have had a very tragic and fatal accident involving raw lyrium sprinkled into Galen’s sheets. It would have been a very tragic, and agonizingly raw way to die. As a result of that conversation, Varric had taken things even slower, and reminded Cassandra that things would only progress as far as she was comfortable.

            Since then, they would leave little things for one another. He’d ordered a spare whetstone like the one Hero had leant her, and left it on her stack of books by her bedroll. Or the wild flowers, and poems he’d left on her bedroll. She’d taken the time to procure writing supplies he preferred, and a special Orlesian gear oil for Bianca. She must have talked to Dagna, or Harritt for suppliers. She’d also managed to track down a beeswax weapon oil for Bianca’s stock that was far better than the oil he’d been using. Bianca appreciated the Seeker’s gifts, just as much as he did.

            He wanted to continue to wait for Cassandra to be ready to take their relationship deeper, but Andraste’s ass, he was tired of leaving her presence and having to think of Bartrand in a bikini, hairy legs and all, before he could sleep. The chair helped take his mind off her beautiful silhouette. The way her hips moved when she was walking toward, away, hell, anywhere he admired. They’d taken to spending evenings together in the Great Hall. He would work on the stack of correspondence one of Nightingale’s scouts would bring down that had arrived for him via the rookery. While he answered correspondence, weighed in on Merchant’s Guild business, and checked in with Hawke, Cassandra sat in the straight-backed wooden chair nearest the fire, reading a romance novel she had gotten from Bull, Dorian, Josephine, or Lace. She didn’t realize it took far longer for him to finish his stack of correspondence, because he couldn’t stop stealing glances at her every few moments.

            Which lead to him having to work far into the night. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d managed to find his way to his own sleeping rooms. Falling asleep, and waking in that damned chair in the Great Hall, was worth it to be able to surreptitiously watch the joy creep across Cassandra’s face, or see her cheekbones flush as she read a racy section in one of the romance novel chapters she enjoyed so much. She would make these little gaspy noises he didn’t think she was even aware of making. He treasured those moments with the Seeker. When they were together, and just being together, no need for words to pass between them.

            Returning to his chair by the fire after having dropped off Bianca to Dagna for some upgrades, his eyebrows quirked at the rolled parchment that had appeared on his chair in the time it had taken him to drop her off to Dagna. That the parchment was there wasn’t a problem, he had a pile of those waiting for him since he’d been gone so long on the mission with Evie. It was that the parchment was wrapped with a lavender ribbon. He gingerly picked it up, unwrapped the parchment, wait, was that cinnamon he smelled? Shit, that _was_ cinnamon. Smiling he opened it to find the Seeker’s strident handwriting stalking across the page.

           

_Varric,_

_Come to your sleeping quarters when you return to Skyhold. I would like to properly show you just how glad I am that you have returned. And how much I have missed our evenings by the fire in the Great Hall._

_~C._


	7. Summons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric answers Cassandra's summons.

Taking the stairs two at a time, after having verified with Ser Morris where his sleeping quarters were supposed to have been all this time, Varric hurried. He let his imagination run wild at the thought of what Cassandra might have planned. After having stashed his gear in the small spot in Chuckle’s rotunda, just to the left of the scaffolding, he hurried to the public baths at Skyhold. Anticipation encouraging him speed his ablutions, he purged the grime of travel from his hair and body. His skin tingled, and he was fairly certain it was equal parts expectation, and scrubbing. He hadn’t bothered to tie back his dripping hair; he’d just thrown on his clean clothes. Perhaps Cass had planned a candlelit dinner, or a quiet evening by a nice warm fire listening to Cassandra read from her favorite book of Nevarran poems. Most of the poems were trite nonsense, unimaginative juxtapositions of love and improbable things. Others were so saccharine they really did make his teeth hurt. There were some she’d found that made him laugh outright they were so bad. “Roses are red, and I like fairies, this afternoon, we’ll meet behind the berries!”

Cass had been so embarrassed to read these things to Varric, opening up to him; he had tried so hard to listen without laughing, failed so often that he decided for every appalling poem Cassandra read to him, he would make up one that would show her how much he cared for her. There was an Orlesian bard she’d found most recently, and she’d read out one of his poems to Varric while he’d taken a quick break from the load of correspondence that always seemed to be waiting for him. She kept trying to find bards Varric didn’t laugh at to minor success. They’d made it a game, Cassandra would search the keep’s libraries, or speak to their friends, or and this had shocked him, visiting noble dignitaries to find poetry books. She’d read some to him, and he’d tell her why they were so awful. Just before he had gone with Evie to the absolute shithole that was Emprise, she’d surprised him with one.

“Your love is better than a wyvern’s acid. It burns more fiercely, and for far longer. Your love is wilder than a giant boar, horny tusks to maim and gore. Your love is like a dragon’s cry, stuns me so I cannot move, I am no more.”

Varric chuckled, actually, he had really enjoyed that one.  Varric could spin better ones without trying, but her voice stirred his blood like nothing else. Snickering he acknowledged that that was one constant in their relationship from its rather rocky beginning in Kirkwall. She still stirred him. Around Cass, he was a lovesick swain. Her laugh was his favorite sound. Her little embarrassed flush when she was reading something she felt inappropriate in the Great Hall, and the way her eyes shone when she was happy were some of his very favorite things. The only thing he enjoyed more than listening to Cassandra speak, was watching Cassandra train. She was poetry. Her lithe form moving, no, flowing from fighting stance to attack, and back to fighting stance. Maker’s breath she took his away. He felt bad now for having held on to a love that could have never been for so very long. Yet if he hadn’t, this relationship with Cassandra may never have begun, and he would be far poorer for it.

Arriving at the door to the room Varric was supposed to have been spending the past six months sleeping in, at least according to Ser Morris' ledger, he took a breath to steady his pulse. Knocking on the door, he opened it at Cassandra’s welcome. Scanning the room, he saw a table by the door with a bottle of Antivan Brandy, and two of Ruffles’ snifters. The table also held a basket with a ham, chuckling he hoped she hadn’t picked any Orlesian hams. He’d tried some a few years back, and he never wanted to taste despair again. She’d also managed to find a couple tapers, probably from Evie’s personal stash. Evie’s family had a long history of candle making. In fact, Evie had been sent to the conclave to secure new accounts for her family’s business by persuading some of the clerics present that her family’s tapers were better suited for prayers than the stocky, thick candles currently used in chantry services. Wandering through the Temple of Sacred Ashes looking for buyers, she’d happened upon Corypheus’ attack on the divine.

Continuing his perusal of the room, there was a nice fire, a bed, and, Andraste’s ass. Cassandra was crossing the floor in the sheerest shift he’d ever had the pleasure of ever seeing. Attempting speech, he cleared his throat, “Uh, Cass, are you sure you are ready for this?” Cassandra laughed at the appreciation in his eyes. “I would like to make love to you. If you are amenable to it?”

A familiar leaping below his belt caused him to chuckle, shaking his head he moved quickly to turn the key in the lock behind him, he took off his shoes, placed them by the door. Turning his body back to the vision before him, they leaned toward each other and kissed. It was all electricity, lavender, wood smoke, fire, silken strands of hair running through fingers, and roaring blood. Heart racing, foreheads pressed together, he asks, one more time, “Are you sure, Cass? I don’t want to lose what we’ve been building. We can just return to spending our evenings in the Great Hall. I don’t want to hurt—mff!” Cassandra laughing through the kiss, “You should know by now, dwarf, if I didn’t want this, neither one of us would be here."


	8. Questions and Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath of coming home.

  “Well, Seeker, that was the nicest homecoming I’ve had for a very long time.” Varric smiled up at Cassandra from the bed, spent. They were both covered in sweat, and scented oil. Making eye contact, she blushed. Fighting to carry a snarky tone, “Good. I am glad you enjoyed yourself. I am happy all of my planning did not disappoint.” Laughter rumbled through Varric, “Admit it, Seeker, you enjoyed the welcome home as much as I did. I really appreciate what you did with the warming oils, and the copper tub though. I think my favorite part was when I opened the door and laid eyes on you dressed in that gauzy thing. Where’d you find it? Nightingale?” Cassandra cocked her eyebrow at him, “That was your favorite part? Josephine has a cousin who owns a lover’s specialty shop in Rivain.” She half-heartedly smacked him on the arm, laughing as well. “My favorite part, dwarf, was when you did those delightful things to me on the bear hide. I do not want to give you any more fuel to tease me with, however, I have never experienced such things before.”

  Varric choked on the brandy in his snifter. “You are kidding me, right? No one has ever? Ever? Those magnificent legs? And I thought I wrote tragedies.” Laughing Cassandra smacked him on the shoulder. “I’m hurt, Cassandra!” Attempting to scowl him into submission, she failed spectacularly, settling for, “You are not! You had better not complain about this when we are on missions either! Evie already thinks I am unnecessarily cruel to you. Do you snore?”

Laughing he waggled his eyebrows at her, “Stay with me tonight and find out?” She considered the offer far longer than Varric expected. He’d expected that she would have leapt at the suggestion as it appealed to her romantic side. That she hadn’t answered right away made his heart a little nervous. “Uh, Cass, I mean, if you don’t want to…,” his voice trailing off into uncertainty. Her eyes snapped to his then, “I would very much enjoy spending the night with you.” She forgot how happiness warmed his eyes, joy and contentment fueled his internal forge.

 After a pause, Cassandra ventured a question which had been bothering her for some time. Knowing she would have to give him answers, before he would give her the ones she sought, she began. “I have a confession to make to you, Varric. But, I am not sure how to proceed.” Nonplussed, he quirked an eyebrow in question, “Let me guess, we should have waited before introducing the warming oils? Or you are actually a desire demon who has me enthralled. If you aren’t Cassandra Too Many Names Pentaghast,” he paused dramatically, hand raised to his forehead, sighing, “I don’t think I could bear to know! Plunge your dagger into my breast, and let me die, happy in my delicious delusion!” With that he collapsed on the bed pretending to die.

His absurd antics helped lightened her mood. “I have been attracted to you far longer than I originally informed you.” His laughter rumbled quietly in his chest, “Really? I suspected you felt something for me on our trek from Haven. That or you were just helplessly mesmerized by the chest hair.” Swatting him and laughing, “You do have some very nice chest hair. I am afraid you will laugh at me. Actually, I first noticed my attraction to you when you were spinning that tale of bullshit while I interrogated you in Kirkwall.” His belly laugh startled, laughter out of her. “This is ridiculous! I cannot even ask you something serious. Why are you now laughing at me?” Calming somewhat Varric looked deeply into her eyes, “Beloved, while you shared some interesting details about when you became aware of your feelings for me, you haven’t actually asked me a question I can answer.”

Taking a deep, calming breath, Cassandra “Slayer of Dragons,” “Left Hand of the Divine,” Pentaghast gathered her courage, looked deep into her lover’s eyes, “When did you first realize you were attracted to me? Was it in Haven? Or Skyhold? Please tell me it was not at Halamshiral while we were dressed in those abysmal costumes Josephine insisted they’d wear to show a “unified front” to the Orlesians.” Her panic was palpable and Varric wanted to calm her fears, but the mention of that preposterous outfit, reminded him of Evie’s attempt to walk gracefully down the stairs as she was introduced, but she exercised her ability to trip on thin air, and face planted in front of the entire court. Looking into Cassandra’s eyes as she began to laugh Varric realized she was thinking the same thing he was.

They mastered themselves after a few more moments. Remembering Cassandra’s question Varric chuckled, “Maker’s ass, Cassandra, I realized I was attracted to you when your thugs threw me into that chair, and you leaned over me to begin the interrogation about Hawke's whereabouts and the events leading up to Blondie's little act of terrorism. Why else do you think it took me so long to tell you a story you already knew by heart. I was captivated by your interest in the tale I was spinning. ”


	9. Guilty Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabella is drinking to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I apologize. I've been working on this story as my muse hits. A dear friend has nicknamed me "Squirrel" because I am so easily distracted. 
> 
> I don't know exactly where this chapter should go. I cannot see Varric's found family ignoring him being dragged from Kirkwall to Haven without at least attempting to rescue him. I am open to any suggestions! 
> 
> Cue Isabella's failed rescue. And the fall out.

          “Andraste’s hairy left tit!” Uncommon tears welled in her eyes, temporarily blurring the Antivan brandy she was drowning in. Whispering into the tumbler she brought to her lips, a tear released itself from her left eye, “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.” Flashes of the ambush she’d engineered with some of the sailors still loyal to her, battered her heart. It would have been counted among Isabella’s successes, had she not recognized the agony in Varric’s screams when he saw the Seeker fall. Dashing her hand across her face, “It was a rescue you damned dwarf, you weren’t supposed to fall for a human!” He heart twisting as she remembered signaling the retreat to her men. Running for cover, hoping against hope, one of her dearest friends would never find out her culpability in killing the woman he’d fallen in love with.

          Who fell that fast? The panicked horror that crossed his face, his bellowing roars for help that chased Isabella and her associates into the caves along the Wounded Coast until they could sneak away by nightfall. Isabella gave a start every time Varric’s grief wracked wails assaulted her memory. Catching Corff’s eye she motioned for another drink, hoping to exorcise the image of one of her dearest friends, covered in the blood of one of his captors. His chief interrogator. Whom Isabella was trying to save him from. Too late she’d realized, Varric was willing to follow that leggy brunette all over the face of Thedas, if she crooked her finger at him.

          Who did that? Angry grief bubbled up inside her. “Maker’s dirty knickers!” Isabella growled, uncorking the new bottle of brandy Nora deposited by Isabella’s arm. Varric had supposedly had a lover he couldn’t tell anyone about. She, Kitten, Fenris, Sebastian, and Hawke, had a pool going whether or not Varric really had “someone” on the side or he was just blowing smoke, like usual. Ugh. Isabella did well with anger, and sex. Other people’s embarrassment. But not this. She didn’t know how to deal with Sebastian’s stuttering profession. She’d laughed in his face in disbelief. Her heart had ached when his face went from pasty white to tomato hued. She had sighed a little sadly when he’d spun on his righteous heel and stalked away to his precious castle in Starkhaven. Varric had encouraged her to try, even though he teased her about “Chantry Boy’s” crush.

          They’d been sitting in the Hanged Man. After a day of helping the wounded, and moving rubble, and searching, Maker! for survivors. After weeks of helping, and bandaging, and protecting the defenseless innocents from those who would loot, or prey on the broken. They’d been dusty, weary, and tired, sitting down at their usual places in Varric’s suite. Dwarf seated in his “throne” regaling them with some tale of his brother’s daring that had failed spectacularly. They had been laughing, snorting into their glasses, wiping tears from their eyes, when they’d come for him. Not Templars. The scarier bastards that Tevinter didn’t have. And Tevinter had some scary shit.

          It had to have been magic. That or a combination of alcohol, and exhaustion. They’d all stood, battle ready to fight these bastards who wanted to take their brother in arms in for questioning. Somehow, Hawke had moved from floor near the fire to the door of the suite so swiftly that his sword point kissed one of the soldier’s adam’s apple in a matter of seconds. There was a flash, and then, Isabella, opened her eyes and they were all gone. The fire had died down noticeably, while she’d been out.

          Fenris and Hawke had disappeared while she’d been unconscious. “We’ll catch up later,” had been scribbled on one of the parchment scraps that floated perpetually in Varric’s living space. Isabella noted “Bianca” in her usual place by Varric’s bed, unscathed. She and Merrill discussed the manner in which their friend had been abducted by chantry thugs, and how to save him. In the end, Varric had returned on his own. He told them what had happened. How he wove the story for the Seeker who’d spent the day interrogating him, how he expected the interrogation itself to last weeks, if he could draw it out.

          Isabella had left Kirkwall with Kitten for a fortnight at the dwarf’s insistence that he could easily, “handle distracting the Seeker,” by himself. When she’d returned to port, after having dropped Merrill off with a related Dalish clan in Ferelden. She’d gone to catch up with him in the Hanged Man. Corff had interrupted her progress to Varric’s rooms with a gruff, “Seeker took him to Haven. Left a week ago. He was pissed.”

          So Isabella had planned the ambush with Martin’s help. Had gathered other trustworthy men she’d sailed with. They’d followed the trail to where Varric and his captors had set up camp for the night. Same Maker forsaken place the Viscount’s son had run away to. Bollocks! She knew then something was going to go terribly wrong with the plan. Her men had attacked at her signal, one of them had grabbed a shield during the course of the fight. Under cover of rocks, Isabella made her way to where she could hear Varric’s voice. He’d made a snarky comment to the leggy brunette seeker. The one who’d interrogated him. She was a split-second away from jumping out from behind her cover to fight by his side and rescue him when she saw his face change from easy grin, (that wasn’t right?), to mute terror. And then his screaming. It had curdled her blood where she cowered. As she ran, she realized the depth of her error. It hit her like her grandmother’s fist. Andraste’s blighted arse! What had she done?

 

          Varric was already in love with the leggy brunette Seeker.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to the question, "Do you have any idea what I could do to you?" I will be posting another ficlet answering this same question...but differently.


End file.
